


Silva's On His Island, All's Wrong With The World

by PerfidiousMadmen



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Captivity, Chains, Clothed Sex, Collars, Confined/Caged, Control Issues, Deepthroating, Fight Sex, Fights, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Hostage Situation, Humiliation, Impulse Control, Knifeplay, Knives, Leashes, M/M, Mentions Of M, Mind Games, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Pain, Painplay, Physical Abuse, Shame, Silva Being Insane, Silva's Obsession With M, Starvation, Threats, Unconsciousness, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerfidiousMadmen/pseuds/PerfidiousMadmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The radio didn't work. No one is coming to rescue Bond, and Silva has his twisted way with him.</p><p>"The hardest thing she asks for? Self control. Without it, we are not good tools, just bad, bad men."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silva's On His Island, All's Wrong With The World

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the 00Silva Gift Exchange, this is for andi-cane.

"Now, hold very very still, James ...."

The warning was, of course, unnecessary; Bond was well restrained.

Silva slipped the needle into the vein at the inside of Bond's elbow and began drawing vials of blood. Once he had enough for the tests, he handed the vacuum vials to a man in his employ, then dismissed the rest of the guards.

"Untie me, you and me, make it a fair fight," Bond growled.

Silva snapped a large empty syringe to the needle hub. He slowly pulled back the plunger, drawing blood into the cylinder.

"No, James ... There is no 'fair fight'. Never. You know that. I know that."

Bond flinched against his restraints, looking a little confused, a little worried at the new development. Oh, he tried to hide it, but Silva thought it just made him look like a worried dog.

"Were you expecting to be beaten? Tortured? No, no ..."

The syringe was full so Silva uncoupled it, emptied it into a basin, then resumed drawing blood.

"This so much more ... civilized, _hmm?"_

Bond half-laughed, but said nothing, watching his blood surge into the cylinder again and again. Soon he began to breathe harder; his eyes became glassy.

Silva stroked the side of Bond's face, continuing to pull on the syringe plunger. "Look how little it takes. Even us, made for killing, made for surviving ... it takes so little. A few hundred milliliters of blood, that is the only thing between life and death."

Bond's head drooped. Silva slapped him.

"Listen when I am talking! Listen to me." He caressed Bond's face again. "Listen, listen. She is coming, you think? Sending more of her ... _disposable_ boys?" He laughed at Bond's defiant gaze. "You will learn."

\----

Bond drifted back to consciousness in a windowless cell. It was a concrete box distinguished only by a drain in the floor, a bare light bulb flickering far, far above, and a rusty seep of water down one wall.

When his thirst became overwhelming, he peeled off his shirt and pressed it to the wall. A brown stain crept across the white cotton as the moisture wicked into the fabric. He sucked at the fabric, drawing out a precious few drops of bitter water, then set it to the wall again. When the relief of the water was overwhelmed by disgust at the taste, he crammed the shirt against the base of the seep to await the return of his thirst.

He laid down, the concrete cold against bare skin. Silva had removed Bond's dinner jacket prior to the blood-draw, leaving only the now-soiled shirt.

Time passed. Bond felt bass _thuds_ thrumming through the concrete—the distant beat of music. It stopped.

He weighed benefits of exercising against its caloric cost and decided against anything more strenuous than periodic cycles of pacing.

His thoughts drifted to the MI6 offices—which in his mind was still in the Vauxhall headquarters, not in the tunnels. Analysts sorting through data from Q-Branch, looking for traces of his whereabouts. He was their best lead to Silva. M would find him. He had no doubt.

After an amount of time he could not determine—at least four days, perhaps as many as seven, he guessed—the door scraped metal-on-concrete and swung open. Four men dragged Bond from the cell. He went willingly; a single man would have been sufficient to overpower him.

They chained him to the wall in a high-ceilinged room with a certain grim, decrepit elegance. He noted the exits: the door in the wall he was chained to, one on the far side of the room, potentially the windows that lined one long side of the room—depending how far it was to the ground. Sunlight poured in those windows, casting a warm light on the object at the far end of the long room, the object that drew gaze ... a large, sturdy bed.

He chose a spot of chipped concrete on the wall and stared at it as he waited, carefully schooling his thoughts and breathing. The adrenaline surge from being moved soon faded; readiness turned to boredom. A door opened, and he was instantly alert.

Silva sauntered across the room. “James, how are you? Hungry? Thirsty?”

Bond just glared. He had forgotten his half-nakedness, but now confronted with this peculiar, fully-clothed man, he felt suddenly aware of being exposed.

“No? James, James. I have no desire to hurt you, to watch you suffer, you must know this … All you have to do is ask. Just ask, not even beg. But, you can’t, can you? So strong, for her … it does not matter. In the end, it does not matter. So few things do.” He was pensive for a moment. “You will ask. Your only choice is how much you want to suffer before you ask.” He moved closer. “But I think, perhaps you like the pain. Oh no, no, you would never say it, but deep inside, there is a voice that says you deserve it, hmm?” He traced a finger along the underside of Bond's jawline.

“Go to hell.”

“I have, I have,” he said softly. Then, he clapped his hands together and smiled a smile that did nothing to set Bond at ease. “Now, we begin. First: good news."

Bond tried not to flinch at the man's boisterous cheerfulness. "You found your balls?"

Silva tutted and shook his head at the paltry attempt at an insult. "Your blood tests all are clean. I am a surprised, a man of your reputation ... Ah, I remember those days, seeing how many pretty things you can bed in one night. But, we get older, we learn we must have care for our health. One mistake, so small, and things that were easy, suddenly they are so difficult." He paused, as if remembering something from long ago. Then he met Bond's gaze. "James ... you know what is going to happen now. Your level of ... _mmm,_ cooperation ... is entirely your choice. So ... now we play a game."

He took a small device from a waistcoat pocket and, with a theatrical flourish, displayed it for Bond to see. "And for our game, I have brought a new playing piece from the mainland." He pressed a button on the device. Two men slammed through the door, dragging a struggling ten-year-old girl between them.

After allowing Bond a time to appreciate the situation, Silva nodded to the men, and they withdrew—girl in tow.

"The hardest thing she asks for—" Bond knew that Silva was not talking about the girl. "—but the thing most important to her, you know what it is?" Silva turned and took off his sport coat as he went to a desk across the room. He draped the coat on the desk chair, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles on the shoulders with a quick swipe of the hands. "Self control. Without it, we are not good tools, just bad, _bad_ men." He opened a drawer, took out a collar and leash, then went to stand in front of Bond again. "Let us see how well she trained you. One hour. If you stay in control, the girl goes free."

He wrapped the leather collar around Bond's neck, dragging it across his throat slower than was strictly necessary. His fingers lingered as they buckled it closed. The revulsion that had been lurking deep in Bond's insides began to spread beyond his control.

Silva continued: "Overcome your biology ... your simple urges of the body. So simple, so hard. The most basic thing Mummy asks."

He produced a key and held it up at eye-level. "This island has security you cannot imagine. Do anything ... _impulsive,_ and the girl dies long before you can hope rescue her." He waved the key back and forth. "You understand?"

Bond gritted his teeth and looked across the room to the far corner where wall met ceiling.

Silva unlocked the restraints and led him across up the middle of the room, toward the bed, keeping firm tension on the leash. Halfway there, Bond lunged forward to tackle Silva from behind, dropping him to the floor. He took a hold around Silva's throat and began to choke him.

But Silva did not execute a counter-move, did not struggle, did not attempt to free himself. His whole body relaxed beneath Bond, as if a great tension had just been relieved. He tipped his head back until he met Bond's gaze ... and he smiled. It was neither leer nor smirk nor grin; it was an unaffected, serine smile.

Bond stared, taken aback by the beatific expression, so different from all the others he had seen from this man.

And then Bond was flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs, Silva astride his waist.

"So impatient. But, here on the floor, there on the bed ... it is no difference." His fingers wandered idle little paths across Bond's chest. "Your back will hurt from the hard floor ..."

Bond bucked and kicked but—weakened by hunger and thirst— could not displace Silva.

Ignoring Bond's thrashing, Silva took the top button of his waistcoat and slipped it through its hole. One, two, three, four, five buttons undone, then he slipped the waistcoat from his shoulders and laid it to the side.

He turned his attention back to Bond. "Have I been too harsh? I thought you are, _were_ her best. Only a few days, and already you are so weak." He shook his head. Pointing to a large, deco clock high on the wall, he said, "One hour."

Silva's hands slithered down to where his body met Bond's and began to stroke him through the trouser fabric.

Bond fixed his expression to one of indifference, ignored the sensations, and continued running exit scenarios. Every situation has varied potential outcomes within a range of extremes. This one had death at the negative pole: his, the girl's, untold numbers of secondary victims if Silva was to roam free. But, death equally filled the positive pole: he had cataloged more than two dozen guards since his arrival, two dozen out of an untold number. Silva was mission essential to capture, his briefing had made that very clear. As Bond explored each chain of potential events, he met more and more dead ends. The security systems that Silva had mentioned—fictional or real? Avoidable or inevitable? Annoyance or fatal? The girl, ultimately, the girl was expendable. With her rescue removed from the equation, it became much simpler: incapacitate Silva, find a way to send a message to MI6, hide, wait for rescue ... or: incapacitate Silva, take him as a hostage, get to the yacht, escape ... or ... or ... or ...

"James, James, where are you?" Silva spoke tenderly, calling Bond back to attention and punctuating each word with a firm squeeze. "Counting my men? How many doors and windows? How many ways to kill me, if only she would let you ..."

"Shut up and get on with it already," Bond snapped, then immediately knew he had made a misstep.

"So so eager, James! Not just reputation, then." Silva already had Bond's trousers open and his cock free.

Bond simultaneously canted his hips up and to the side and caught one of Silva's arms in the crook of his own elbow—locking it in place. He flipped Silva off and aimed a knee-jab at his crotch. But Bond's open trousers reduced his range of motion and reduced the force of the blow.

Silva rolled away and to his feet then jerked the leash sharply. Bond's head was yanked to the side, making him feel as if he had taken a punch to the throat. He coughed and slipped two fingers under the collar to hold it away from his windpipe. As he looked up at Silva—at that broad, dead-eyed smile—Bond wondered how many terrible assignments he would draw as punishment if he defied orders and killed this man. No number would be too high. M's disappointment would be harder to stomach. But, he thought, it would not be the first time he had disappointed her and would, no doubt, not be the last.

Keeping the leash held high and tight, Silva stepped close. He had always taken a sharp pleasure in the upward gaze of someone at his feet, and this occasion was no exception.

With his free hand, he took a penknife from his pocket and flicked it open. The blade—a small thing, around four centimeters long—sunk smoothly into the dense flesh of Bond's right shoulder. Silva pressed it in up to the handle, gave a quick twist, then withdrew it.

Bond flinched only slightly before controlling his reaction, suppressing it to only gritted teeth and quick, harsh breaths. Torture, unambiguous and pure, was an action for which he had vast preparation and experience, and he found it much preferable to insidious false softness.

Silva drew his index finger through the stream of blood flowing from the wound, painted it across his lips, and pressed a hard, closed-mouthed kiss on Bond. He tasted the blood, delighted it, for it was not Bond's blood, but hers. She claimed body and soul and made them her things. Silva wiped a hand up the stream of blood, reached down between their bodies, and took hold of Bond's cock—semi-erect from his prior attentions. After a few gentle strokes, he began began working in quick, rough motions.

Bond shot a glance up at the clock; time was not moving quickly. The friction could not be ignored. He called up thoughts of repulsive, disgusting things, trying to drive away the needed to thrust.

When Bond's breathing became rough and erratic, Silva released him. Suddenly deprived of all touch, Bond moaned slightly, then berated himself for the weakness. He drew a sharp breath when Silva knelt behind him.

"How could she choose one like you? So weak. Not worthy." Silva pressed forward—one leg to each side of Bond—leaning against his back, silk shirt to bare skin.

Bond felt Silva hot against his back and hard against his ass. He was—more than anything—tired. Tired, hungry, and painfully aroused. Though he had not seen any cameras in the cell, he had no doubt that he was being watched, and so had refrained from his usual release. Now he wished that he had acted on the urge then; being voyeuristically observed was far preferable to having so strong of an involuntary reaction to touch.

Silva wrapped his arms around Bond's waist and nuzzled into his neck. He ghosted his fingers across the skin just below Bond's navel. What a marvel, he thought, that a punch would produce a laugh and an insult, but the softest of touches were truly unbearable. When he tired of that teasing, he returned his focus to Bond's cock, fingertip strokes around the base of the head fading into encompassing the entire shaft in smooth swirls. But, he found that Bond reacted most to artless, even vicious, pulls. And when the time was right, he spoke:

"She will be so disappointed when she sees the surveillance video."

In that moment, Bond knew it was inevitable. And the shame, the thought of M watching his debasement, her anger ... a pain bit into his shoulder as Silva stabbed him again, and the sensations swirling together are too much, and he was overcome.

Bond came in wrenching, painful spurts. Silva stroked his hair, his back, his shuddering sides—all in a fascinated, almost proud, delight in what he had done to her favorite creature.

Bond was still consumed by suffering his climax when Silva pried his mouth open. His fingers forced their way to the back of Bond's mouth, locking the jaw open, but Bond was too spent to struggle. Without preamble, Silva forced his own erection deep inside Bond's throat, cutting off the airway. And he held it there, hips twitching to drive impossibly farther down.

He did not ignore Bond's struggling and choking—he savored them. Each rippling contraction of Bond's throat, the tears that overflowed down his cheeks, the desperate sounds: they brought Silva great pleasure. And soon, he could hold back no longer.

Then Silva kissed him again, this time open-mouthed to taste himself on Bond's tongue.

He stood and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Oh dear, Mr. Bond." He indicated the clock. "Not even twenty minutes ... well, tomorrow we try again, yes?" Silva smiled, and it was a terrible thing.


End file.
